His Dean
by Jamie552
Summary: It had only been a few days since the brothers had left Rebecca's. Sam wasn’t ok. Not even a little bit. One-shot. Tag to "Skin".


**Summary**: It had only been a few days since the brothers had left Rebecca's. Sam wasn't ok. Not even a little bit.

**Author's Note:** One of my absolute favorite episodes of Supernatural is "Skin", back in the first season. Even though the shifter shedding was _incredibly_ gross--yuck--I thought the idea was really cool. I always thought that having the crap beat out of him by "Dean" would mess Sam up a bit, so here's my take on that. Hope you like it!

**Disclaimer**: Nope, I don't own them. The boys belong to Eric Kripke. I'm _jealous_.

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Sam Winchester was no stranger to nightmares.

He was used to the horrific images that often plagued his nights—the dripping of blood, her haunted face staring down at him, the sudden explosion and heat of the fire. It was always the same thing, over and over again.

All it took was one experience to change things—to change his nightmares.

They were still dark and terrifying. They still made his heart race and his whole body shake, breaking out in a nervous sweat. They still made him jerk awake, just as if he'd been smacked in the face. The difference was it was no longer Jessica's face that stared down at him, but his own brother's; fury and hatred flashing in his eyes, the usually familiar and gentle hands wrapped around his throat, pressing in on his windpipe.

The harsh words echoing in his ears.

_You son of a bitch._

_Deep down I'm just jealous._

_You got friends, you could have a life…_

_You don't think I had dreams of my own?_

Every time Sam thought about those words, he felt his stomach drop.

The rough bruises and the countless scrapes and cuts from the fight in Rebecca's living room were taking their time in healing. Physically, they were improving…emotionally, they were taking a lot longer.

Whenever he looked into a mirror, his eyes instantly traveled to the worst bruise of them all; the painful dark blue mark on his throat. The horrible pattern that, he knew, matched his brother's right hand perfectly. If he looked close enough, Sam could even make out the bold pattern of Dean's silver ring.

He now stood there quietly in the small motel bathroom, having discarded his shirt only a few minutes before.

It had been only a few days since the brothers had left Rebecca's house and examining his black and blue chest had become a nightly ritual. Sam felt compelled to see how quickly he was healing, waiting impatiently for the day that all the emotionally painful injuries were gone. They served as nothing but a reminder and he hated every single one of them.

Sam still had rare moments where he couldn't wrap his head around what had happened.

Throughout his twenty-two years of human life, he'd had some absolutely crazy experiences; he'd been slimed more times than he cared to remember…he'd fallen, head first, into rank rivers…he'd been covered head to toe in grungy mud and soaked through with rain water. He was used to monsters throwing him around…

Such was life for a Winchester.

But being thrown around by Dean?

Being threatened with knives. Having a pool cue brutally swung at him. Being launched into book shelves and through coffee tables.

All at the hands of his brother?

The logical part of his brain, the part with common sense, kept _screaming_ at him that it hadn't been his brother. Dean—_his_ Dean—hadn't been there. His Dean had saved his life. His Dean would never lay a hand on him in anger or violence.

Common sense told him that.

The illogical part of him saw only his big brother's face; looming over him, eyes flashing dangerously, evil intent so obviously clear that—even in memories—it sent shivers up Sam's spine.

Letting out a slow breath, Sam reached over and grabbed his t-shirt. The mere act of pulling it on stretched sore and angry muscles and he couldn't hold in the small groan that escaped him.

Sam's entire body felt like one big bruise.

His eyes went to the bathroom door as the small and tentative knock reached his ears. "Sammy?"

Dean's voice was almost as shy as his knock and Sam let out another breath, bracing his hands down on the sink and hanging his head. "Yeah?"

A slight hesitation. "You ok?"

Sam wasn't ok. Not even a little bit.

"Yeah, I'm ok." Swallowing hard, Sam added. "I'll be out in a minute."

It always took a working up of his courage to leave the confines of the bathroom and put himself back in close proximity to Dean. And whenever Sam felt that twinge of anxiety, he mentally slapped himself.

Because there was absolutely no reason for it.

Pulling open the bathroom door, his eyes immediately fell on his brother, who was sitting patiently at the small table near the window. As soon as Sam opened the door, Dean snapped his head up and they locked eyes; there was an emotion in his big brother's eyes that Sam couldn't really place…and as if on cue, he was instantly nervous.

Dean's voice was rough. "You alright?"

"Yeah…just uh…little sore."

"You need ice or anything?"

"No, thanks-" Slowly, so as not to tweak anymore of his bruises or strains, Sam made his way over to his own bed. His duffel sat unzipped on the bedspread, and in a silent fit of awkwardness, he turned his back on Dean and started rummaging through his clothes.

He noted absently that he needed to do laundry.

The silence in the small motel room was stifling. Dean hadn't moved from his chair at the table and Sam continued to fumble through his bag.

There were only a few other times that Sam could remember where things had been that tense between him and his brother. Most of those memories revolved around his constant arguing with their dad; Sam fighting for independence, John fighting for control, and Dean, as always, stuck somewhere in the middle.

Those arguments almost always ended with Sam storming out, never making it further than the Impala. He'd lean against it, letting out angry breaths into the dark night air—because the fights _always_ happened at night when the three Winchesters were stuck alone together in the confines of their room.

Ten to fifteen minutes after Sam walked out, Dean would follow, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he cautiously walked towards the car; giving off the impression that he was prepared to spend all night searching if Sam ever _did_ eventually make it out of the parking lot.

They would stay outside together, talking about _anything_ but the harsh words that had been spoken. The air between them was always incredibly tense; Dean usually sided with their dad, and both brothers knew it.

But at that moment, it wasn't just tension; there was an elephant in the room, and if Sam knew anything about his older brother, he could _feel_ Dean getting ready to acknowledge it.

Sam didn't know if he was ready to talk about it or not.

He noted with some misplaced amusement that the tables had turned—_Dean_ was getting ready to jump-start the chick flick moment and it was _Sam_ that was antsy about it.

"We gonna talk about this?"

Sam swallowed hard and let his eyes slip closed. "Talk 'bout what?"

"Come on, Sammy, you _know_ what."

"There's nothing to talk about-"

"Really?"

The younger man sighed and opened his eyes, glancing at his brother over his shoulder but not looking directly at him. "Yeah, really."

"So you hidin' in the bathroom for half an hour. There's no reason to talk about that?"

"I wasn't _hiding_, Dean."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

Silence fell again and Sam could practically _feel_ the frustration radiating from his brother's place across the room. He finally gave up the pointless rooting through his bag and slowly turned, setting himself down on the edge of his bed like a geriatric.

"You know that I would never hurt you."

At Dean's words, Sam couldn't help but raise his eyes. They looked at each other, Dean's face so unbelievably serious that he couldn't look away. Sam slowly nodded and swallowed hard. "Yeah-" He said quietly. "I know that."

"I mean, these nightmares you've been havin'-" Dean paused and took a deep breath. "I know that they're about what happened with the shifter-"

"How do you know that?"

Dean was quiet for a second, then said quietly, "Every other nightmare you've had—when we were kids, the ones with Jess? I could climb outta bed and talk to you, and you'd calm down. Lately, me talkin' to you only makes it worse."

And right then, Sam was ashamed of himself.

He guiltily focused his tired eyes on the carpet between his feet.

"I know that son of a bitch said stuff to you, I just don't know what. But if it's got you scared or freaked out, we should talk about it." Sam could practically hear Dean swallow hard. "I don't want you scared of me, Sammy."

Sam let out a breath and raised his hands, rubbing his eyes wearily before roughly running his fingers through his hair. He could feel Dean's eyes on him; expectant and sad. The emotions were in the air.

Sam wanted to tell Dean with confidence that it wasn't _him_ that he was afraid of, it wasn't _his brother_ that was messing with his head.

It was something else.

Something that had taken the one absolute in Sam's world and manipulated into something evil and twisted. The image of his older brother was the one thing in his universe that never wavered or shifted…he was always there, either in foreground or in the background, never more than two steps ahead or behind.

To Sam, Dean Winchester had always been untouchable.

It had taken a supernatural wearing Dean's face to quake Sam's stability.

His voice a near whisper, Sam said, "I'm not scared of you, Dean."

Some of the tension in the room eased and Dean stood from his chair, cautiously walking forward and seating himself on his own bed, directly across from Sam.

Sam tried desperately not to flinch at Dean's sudden closeness, the illogical part of his brain fighting his common sense for dominance.

"Can I…ask you something?"

Dean raised his head and the two brothers locked eyes for a moment; as it usually was over those past few days, Sam was the first to look away. "Go ahead."

Running a hand through his hair again—an act bred out of the fidgets more than anything else—Sam spoke uncertainly. "The shifter said something to me-" He paused, glancing at Dean's face quickly; his brother was listening intently, attentiveness in his face. "About me…goin' away to school."

Dean gave a nearly indiscernible nod.

"Did you ever…resent me…for goin' away?"

"Resent you?"

"Did you ever wish that…you were going, instead of me?"

Sam raised his eyes and watched the emotions and expressions roll across Dean's face. To any other person, his face would appear impassive or unreadable; but to Sam, there were a thousand different things to see.

First, there was confusion; why would Sam _ever_ feel the need to ask something so crazy?

Then, there was realization; Sam was asking _because_ of the shifter.

And last, there was fury…_because_ of the realization.

At the look on his brother's face, Sam had to fight the purely instinctive impulse to pull away. Sam had seen that expression on Dean's face hundreds of times over the years; his jaw was set, his eyes ablaze…he was struggling to keep his temper under control.

Sam had a feeling that his face had shown his feelings because Dean let out a heavy breath and hung his head. After a moment of silence, he looked up again.

"Sammy-" Dean paused, seeming to want to choose his words carefully; Sam prepared himself, subtly clenching his fists. "When you left…I just uh…" He chuckled quietly. "I lost somethin', y'know? I didn't wanna hunt, I didn't wanna do anything. Things were too different with you gone."

"But you and dad-" Sam interrupted quietly. "You guys kept on hunting without me."

"Yeah, but it wasn't the same." Dean's eyes were surprisingly soft, and Sam, feeling slightly more confident, slowly unclenched his hands. "I mean, you know dad—there was never any time for anything but the hunt…that was it." He chuckled again, but there was no humor in it at all. It was bitter. "Cared more about the kill than anything else.

"You wantin' to go to school, wantin' to make something of yourself? I never resented you for wantin' to do that. Hell, Sam, you're smart…you had so much goin' for you, still do." He smiled warmly. "I never wished I was goin' _instead_ of you. I wished I was goin' _with_ you."

Sam couldn't stop his eyes from widening and he actually had to fight to keep his mouth from popping open. After a few seconds of looking at each other in silence, all he could manage was a lame-sounding, "What?"

"Even when we were kids, Sammy, I knew it was gonna happen one day."

"You knew _what_ was gonna happen?"

"College." Dean shrugged lightly. "I saw Stanford comin' a mile away. I wasn't surprised when you said you wanted to go. Dad was."

"But you loved hunting with dad growin' up, Dean." Sam said quietly, leaning forward just slightly. "You _still _love it, you're good at it-"

"I never had a choice, Sam. After mom died-" He shrugged again. "Dad started huntin' and when I got old enough, it just kinda happened. I didn't want it to be that way for you, I _always_ wanted you to have a choice."

"But you were mad at me when I left."

"Sam-"

"I remember, Dean. When you dropped me off at the bus station, you could hardly look at me-"

"I wasn't mad at you for leavin' the hunt. I was mad…because I knew the second you got on that damn bus, things were gonna be changin'. You out there—half-way across the country—with new people, all by yourself, no one there to watch out for you."

Sam couldn't stop himself from smiling slightly. "Yeah, you never _could_ believe that I could take care of myself."

"After all the trouble you got in when we were kids, can you blame me for thinkin' that way?"

Sam laughed lightly, shaking his head. "No, I guess not."

"One of the biggest problems I had with you leavin' was that I wouldn't know whether you were ok or not." Dean said gently, his voice quiet but rough. "It drove me crazy the first few weeks. I didn't wanna call you…y'know…after what happened-"

"You should've."

Dean looked into Sam's eyes and slowly nodded. "Yeah. I should've. But eventually, I worked up the balls to do one better."

"Do one better?" Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I went up there a couple times—to Stanford."

That time, Sam's mouth _fully_ popped open. He quickly snapped it closed again. "What? When?"

"I tried to go at the beginning of every school year, y'know, to check out where you were livin' and stuff. Followed you around a bit, saw you with your friends…even saw you with Jess a couple times."

"I never even knew you were there."

Sam was feeling slightly stupid.

He'd been trained in the same way as Dean to know when he was being followed, to have the senses and smarts enough to know and to recognize a tail for what it was. How skilled could he have been to not even notice his own _brother_ following him around the Stanford campus?

Dean seemed to read his mind and he chuckled good-naturedly. "Come on, Sammy, I'm not the older brother for nothin'. I followed you around enough growin' up, Stanford was no different."

"Why didn't you ever say anything to me?"

The smile faded slightly from Dean's face and he furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "'Cause you had your own thing goin' on, your own friends…I only went up there to check on you, make sure you were alright."

Swallowing hard, Sam said, "The shifter said _you_ wanted your own life."

"In the beginning, yeah. But it didn't take me long to get back into things, y'know? As best as I could, anyway." He smirked suddenly. "And you're right, I _am_ pretty damn good at it."

Sam chuckled. "You're modest, too."

"Yeah, well…"

A small silence fell, but Sam could feel that it wasn't as tense; it was almost comfortable. A companionable silence, the kind that they had usually shared as kids. Content to sit there together—no need for talking or conversation, it was never required or expected. They were simply happy being together, being close enough to share a small smile or to snort together in quiet laughter as Dean read the comics aloud in whispers.

"Can I ask _you_ somethin' now?"

Sam found himself nodding as he lightly fidgeted with his hands in his lap. "Yeah…sure."

"These nightmares you've been havin'? What happens in 'em?"

Sam fidgeting was now bred from anxiousness and he pulled his eyes from his brother's face, looking down at his hands.

He debated, for the shortest second, coming up with some sort of brilliant lie that would save him from having to tell the truth; the harsh truth, that he dreamt of his brother's hands tightening around his throat.

But with the intensity of Dean's eyes and the feeling of his strong gaze, Sam knew without a doubt that he wouldn't get away with any lie he could tell…no matter how brilliant it was.

He spoke quietly, avoiding Dean's eyes. "Just…the shifter comin' at me. When he put his hands around my neck and the…burning in my throat." Sam _felt_ rather than saw Dean tense. "I'm pushin' at him, you know? Trying to get him off me. But I can't. His eyes—_your_ eyes—are lookin' down at me, and all I can see is _hate_. Disgust. He calls me Sammy, as if he has a right to, and right before everything goes black…that's when I wake up."

When Dean finally spoke, his voice was practically shaking; Sam couldn't force himself to look at his face. "You know I would _never_ do that to you."

Sam quickly nodded. "I mean, it was weird, he even _smelled_ like you."

"Smelled like me?"

"The whole time I was with him, I could smell your leather jacket-"

Sam finally looked up, right into Dean's eyes. Instinctively he looked for difference between _those_ eyes, and the eyes that had looked down at him while he'd struggled to breathe. Immediately, he spotted the differences. Dean's eyes were softer.

"It wasn't me, Sammy."

"I know that."

"Do you really?"

Sam nodded again. "I know."

After a moment, Dean practically growled and shook his head. "I swear to God, dude, that shifter is one son of a bitch I wouldn't mind killin' twice."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us."

"No more nightmares, ok?"

The sudden seriousness of Dean's voice startled Sam for a moment but eventually he felt himself nodding his head. "Yeah. No more nightmares."

They sat there together for a little while longer, talking about nothing in particular—just enjoying being together, content with each other's company.

As they finally got to bed that night, Dean was the first to fall asleep, as was the usual way of things. Sam simply lay there quietly, matching his breathing with his brother's.

For years, Dean's presence in the dark had been a source of comfort; his light snores, his never-ending tossing and turning.

And _that_ night, even though Sam still suffered through one of his nightmares, underneath it all, he could sense his _brother_ and he _knew_ he wasn't alone.

He _knew_ he was safe.


End file.
